


Prime Directive

by RetroactiveCon



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Android Barry Allen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetroactiveCon/pseuds/RetroactiveCon
Summary: “Status report, Barry.”“Status: functional. All systems normal.” It has a pleasant voice, nondescript save its inherent warmth. Hartley knows that tone; he programs it into all companion androids to make them seem nonthreatening. (It is in no way a projection of the tone he would like to hear directed at him someday. That would be unprofessional.) “This unit is named…Barry.” Its eyes light up. “My name is Barry.”“Very good.”
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Hartley sighs, downs the last of his coffee in one mouthful, and lurches up from his seat. He’s been working some thirty hours straight to fix a flaw in the newest model of android voiceboxes, which for some reason predispose the android to the type of repetition that in humans would be called echolalia. He’s been operating under the assumption that it’s a mechanical defect, but Dr. Snow, who is in charge of android cognition, suggested it’s the speech processing software overriding the new speech production code. If that’s the case, it’s her domain, not his, and he needs to relay that to Dr. Thawne. 

When he reaches Thawne’s office, he raps his knuckles on the doorframe and enters immediately. “Sir, I have an update for you on the voicebox errors…”

“How many times?” Thawne snaps. Hartley stops in his tracks. He’s accustomed to coming and going from this office as he pleases; Thawne has never snapped at him for a hasty entrance before. “I detest being interrupted when I’m working!” 

Hartley murmurs apologies. He’s barely half-aware of what he’s saying; his focus is riveted on the android chassis laid out on a work table. Not only is this unprecedented—Thawne is the creative and administrative head, and is seldom involved in the mechanical aspects—it’s captivating. The android is obviously top-of-the-line; its synthetic skin has no visible seams, and every line of its face appears human. Its midriff is open, exposing its delicate inner workings to scrutiny. Thawne has both hands deep in its mechanics.

“You’re here,” Thawne grumbles. He withdraws his hands from the android and lays aside a miniscule screwdriver. “You might as well tell me what you want.”

Hartley tears his eyes away from the android. “Yes, sir. I was speaking to Dr. Snow, and she believes the glitch in the voicebox is a software problem, not a hardware one. She believes the speech processing program is overriding the speech production code.” 

“Causing the android to repeat what it hears rather than generate an answer,” Thawne concludes. “Plausible. Are you capable of fixing it?”

Hartley shakes his head. “That’s a job for Dr. Snow and her team. Of late, coding is too much like neuroscience for my comfort.” 

“I don’t pay you to be comfortable.” Thawne closes the android’s panel. It slots into place without a gap or a scar in the smooth synth-skin. “I pay you for results. But I suppose, in this instance, you’re correct. Dr. Snow proposed the solution; she should be the one to implement it.”

Hartley nods his gratitude. The pressure over this glitch is enormous; the newest android models are expected on the market in less than a week, and STARCorp can’t release them with such a blatant defect. Thankfully, this means the pressure is off him and instead on Dr. Snow. It also means that, when the glitch is fixed, it will be the simple matter of a software update rather than a mass hardware replacement. 

“Shall I tell her?” 

“No.” Thawne waves a dismissive hand. “That’s not your place. Go…rest.” He sounds as though the notion is distasteful.

“Sir.” Hartley can’t resist asking. It’s the sleep deprivation talking; were he fully awake, he would know better than to pry. “Is this a prototype?”

Thawne scowls. “It is none of your concern.”

He won’t get any more information like this. Reluctantly, he turns and leaves the office. If nothing else, he’s free to go home and get some sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Hartley’s apartment is minimalist verging on soulless. He owns only what he needs; it’s pointless to invest in comforts he wouldn’t have time to enjoy. Most of his time is spent at STARCorp, and he likes it that way.

After over a day at work, there’s a vaguely neglected feel to the small space. This is also how he prefers it. He could invest in an android to keep everything clean and welcoming, but the idea repulses him. No one else is permitted into his space, particularly if they can be hacked like a common computer. The apartment comes with a charging port—they’re standard issue now, the larger, more specialized version of an outlet—but he’s never been tempted. 

(Once. He was tempted once, when his depression threatened to consume him and he felt alone and adrift. The idea of someone who could offer the illusion of care, however false and coded it might be, sounded wonderful. Thankfully, he came to his senses before he did anything foolish.) 

He wanders to the bedroom, toes off his shoes, and flops onto the unmade bed without shedding his work clothes. Despite the sunlight pouring in the window, he’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

He wakes in darkness. This isn’t uncommon, and he shuffles to the kitchen for a drink of water without turning on the lights. Only once he opens the refrigerator does he notice a problem: it isn’t running. 

Power outages aren’t uncommon, particularly as the growing number of androids stresses the city’s power grid. A glance out the window confirms that it’s localized to his building, which is slightly more alarming. Still, it’s no reason to panic, he assures himself as he pours a glass of water. It will almost certainly be fixed in a few minutes. 

Half an hour later, power has not returned. A low, constant babble of voices has begun in the hall, from which Hartley deduces that his neighbors have left the comfort of their apartments to commiserate over the outage. He has no desire to mingle, but he would like an explanation. Reluctantly, he pokes his head out the front door. He immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

In addition to a throng of other tenants, there are police in the halls. Hartley recognizes Joe West at a glance, as well as his daughter Iris, who has made a name for herself despite not yet having reached six months on the force. Both of them are brandishing powerful flashlights, which cast everything in a sickly glow. He also knows Eddie Thawne, his employer’s cousin, who’s as kindhearted as Eobard is strict. Eddie catches a glimpse of him before he can disappear back into his apartment and hurries over. 

“Hartley!” 

“Eddie.” Reluctantly, Hartley steps out into the hall. Had any other cop cornered him, he’d have shut the door in their face. Since it’s Eddie, who was kind to him during his brief stint on the streets and went out of his way to make sure Hartley was safe, he can endure. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Eddie balances his flashlight under one arm and pulls out a pen and pad. “Were you awake when the power first went out?”

Hartley shrugs. “I don’t think so. I woke up, went to get a drink, and realized my refrigerator wasn’t running. That was about half an hour ago.” 

“Okay.” Eddie jots this down. “What woke you?”

Hartley frowns. “Nothing. I fell asleep around three in the afternoon—I think I woke naturally.”

Eddie offers him a crooked smile. “Eo still working you too hard?”

Hartley doesn’t answer. He’s loath to speak a bad word against Eobard, who offered him a job when no one else in Central City would touch him. Eddie knows this, although he feels no such constraint. 

“Did anything happen in the half an hour between then and now?” 

“No. I ate an unhappily lukewarm breakfast in the darkness and lamented my inability to read anything.” Hartley raises an eyebrow. “Was there something I should have noticed?”

Eddie glances over his shoulder. Joe and Iris are occupied with other tenants, so he drops his voice to a whisper and confides, “The power outage killed the security system, and someone disabled the security bot. We think it was a cover for a break-in, but nobody caught a glimpse of the suspects. The only person who was down in the lobby when it happened said she saw a spark…”

“In the generator room?” Hartley asks. 

Eddie shakes his head. “Near the front desk, where the guard would have been. And that android is fried. This was someone who anticipated bot interference.” 

Any thief would have to. Not only would they face the security guard, but every companion android is programmed to subdue intruders. (They can neither kill nor cause lasting harm, but that doesn’t make them any less effective. Hartley has witnessed them in action.) “A Taser would be enough to overload most androids—the current surge protectors only moderate intake from the charge port, so they’d be useless against a Taser. It would be doubly useful should they encounter human threats…”

“But that’s the odd thing.” Eddie nods. “The witness in the lobby was left alone.” 

This doesn’t strike Hartley as particularly odd. “Perhaps they didn’t notice her, or didn’t consider her a threat. Why waste time on someone who, evidently, was too far away to identify them?”

“Or,” Eddie proposes, “what if they physically couldn’t harm her?”

Hartley balks. “You think an android did this?”

“It’s not that implausible.” Eddie stuffs his notepad back into his pocket. “They could be ordered to steal something, couldn’t they?”

“In theory,” Hartley agrees. Androids aren’t coded with a base morality beyond ‘never harm a human.’ (It comes as an option, but the earliest models proved it was too limiting. It’s easier and better to allow each customer to set their android’s parameters.) 

A scream echoes down the hall. Eddie whirls around, seizing his flashlight in one hand and dropping his other hand to his holster. Hartley ducks back into the doorway but doesn’t close the door. Against his will, he’s gotten too involved in Eddie’s hypothesis to retreat. 

Some ten minutes later, Eddie returns. He stops only to report, in a low, grim voice, “Mason Bridge is dead. So much for my android theory.” 

Hartley retreats into his apartment and shuts the door. He knew Bridge by reputation: an intuitive and insightful reporter with the Central City Picture News. It wouldn’t surprise him to find that he made enemies in his years of reporting. The question that worries him most is not necessarily who killed him, but whether they were human or android. Eddie was right that an android’s morality is only as good as their code; in theory, with the right tweaks to their base code, an android could be freed of their inability to harm humans. The question would then become: who modified them, and might they kill again?

“Two questions, not one,” Hartley corrects himself irritably. He shuffles back to his bedroom, his steps growing longer as his eyes adjust to the darkness. The door to his room swings silently open. He creeps across the threshold, his breath catching in his chest. When no one leaps at him, he gives himself a reproachful shake. “And the answers are not my concern. I make androids; what happens to them afterward is not my responsibility.” 

He dives back under the covers, unable to shake the feeling that somehow, it is.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, STARCorp is abuzz with news of Bridge’s murder. Hartley keeps his head down and his ears open, from which he garners the following: 

Bridge was killed by a massive electrical shock. No valuables were taken from his apartment, but his desk drawers were upended and it’s possible that some of his research was stolen. His phone was found near his hand; it’s perfectly likely that, upon realizing he was overpowered, he tried to take a picture or video of his attacker. As the phone was also electrocuted, this was evidently in vain. 

Thawne, unbothered by the gossip, drives them relentlessly toward the release of the newest line of androids. Although Hartley specializes in android voices, he’s pulled away from his computer to help finalize a set of android bodies. He keeps his eye out for the chassis from Thawne’s office but never sees it. 

After two days, Dr. Snow pronounces that she’s fixed the echolalia. To everyone’s relief, the software update is rolled out that night. Hartley stays with her and Cisco Ramon late into the night, testing the update by activating a few androids. This also allows him to modify their voices as needed, a task he thoroughly enjoys. 

“Unit 4782, status report.” Cisco inspects the unit, a companion android that, were it not mechanical, might be called handsome. Hartley is particularly proud of its voice, a rich accented baritone that, when he first made it, almost lulled him to sleep. 

“Status: functional. Most recent update successfully installed at 20:34.” The unit regards them with blank brown eyes. Hartley suppresses a shiver. For as human as androids look, there’s no way to put a human spark of intelligence in their eyes. 

“Good.” Cisco tilts his head. He’s been asking each android a question that requires some thought, and they’ve gotten progressively weirder as the night wears on. “If two people give you conflicting orders, and neither is your master, which one do you obey?”

In early android models, such a scenario invariably resulted in the android overheating or powering down out of stress. Since then, they’ve coded some steps to avoid damage to the unit. 

“Whichever does not violate established parameters,” the android replies. Hartley breathes a quiet sigh. If the update hadn’t worked, it would repeat Cisco’s question back to him on a loop. “If neither violates established parameters, wait for clarification. If both violate established parameters, do nothing.” 

“Great!” Cisco gives a single happy clap. “Okay, 4782, when you shut down, you can erase the memory of this session. And power down now.” 

The android obediently lays back on the table and closes its eyes. Like this, it appears almost like a sleeping human. Hartley infinitely prefers this to the dull stare he receives from activated units. 

“Okay.” Cisco checks his tablet. “That’s four units with no defects. Caitlin’s tested six, also found no defects. What do you say, another five units and we’ll call it a success?”

“That’s a woefully small test pool,” Hartley says. 

Cisco rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know, but if Caitlin does another five, that’ll make twenty between us. Any more than that and we’ll be here for hours.”

They activate another five androids at random and test them for the echolalia glitch. All of them operate as expected, and by the time they put the last android to sleep, they’re fairly confident the update worked. Additionally, Hartley has compiled a list of notes on the androids’ voices, which all sound perfectly human but don’t necessarily fit the chassis to which they’ve been assigned. 

“You know, you could have activated some of them yourself,” Cisco points out. He runs a hand through his hair, which has gotten curlier and more unruly as the release date grows nearer. Although Hartley would usually take the opportunity to lecture him about how unprofessional it looks, in this instance he can’t help but admire the curls. 

“I am not responsible for the update,” he sniffs. “I wanted to hear how the individual voices sound.”

Cisco arches an eyebrow. “Man, you act like you don’t interact with androids on a daily basis.”

“I don’t. I interact with their disassembled parts.” Hartley stifles a yawn. It’s late; he wants to go home and sleep, not indulge Cisco’s preference for idle chatter. 

“You don’t have a companion bot?” Cisco sounds bewildered, as do most people upon learning of Hartley’s android-free existence. “Man, even I have Gideon. She’s not much, but she’s reliable.” 

Gideon was the very first iteration of a companion android. It has a humanoid chassis but lacks the detail of the newer models, and its personality isn’t customizable, a fairly recent feature arising from complaints about the Gideon models. No doubt it’s the perfect fit with Cisco, who has enough personality for two. 

“Solitude is preferable to a roommate who can be hacked.”

Cisco lays a hand on Hartley’s shoulder. “With an attitude like that, you’re never gonna find one who can’t.” 

Hartley adjusted to that idea long ago. He can’t discern whether Cisco’s comment is concerned or judgmental, so he doesn’t deign to respond. 

“Well,” Cisco sighs. “Go get some sleep. I know I’m gonna.” He yawns widely and wanders toward the door. At the last second, Hartley calls out to him. 

“Cisco, is Thawne involved with designing or constructing android bodies?”

Cisco turns back to him with a thoughtful frown. “Not that I’m aware of,” he says. “I mean, sometimes he stops by to look at the plans for the new models, but I don’t know that he’s ever stepped in to help with the mechanics. He’d be capable, though—I’m pretty sure he could do any job in the company if he wanted.” 

Hartley nods. Cisco’s assessment of Thawne’s skill is accurate; if he wanted, he could construct an android without anyone’s help. Perhaps he wants a personalized companion bot, although the idea of what he might do with such a pretty bot makes bile rise in Hartley’s throat. 

“’Night, Cisco.” 

“’Night, Hartley. The sooner you’re back in your weird little hidey-hole, the happier I’m gonna be.” 

That makes both of them.


	4. Chapter 4

The release of the new model is welcomed with enthusiasm. In STARCorp, there is a great sigh of relief. Not only has all gone well, they can now return to normal levels of worry for the foreseeable future.

Hartley considers retreating to his workroom to escape the joyous hubbub, but Cisco, who has made it his goal in life to annoy him, would find him and drag him out. Instead, he ducks upstairs and meanders with no specific goal in mind. He finds himself outside Thawne’s office and, since he has nothing better to do, knocks on the door. 

“Enter,” Thawne says curtly. 

Hartley pokes his head in. Thawne glances up at him and raises his eyebrows. “Hartley. You aren’t celebrating with the others?”

He shakes his head. Anyone else would have earned a derisive scoff, but he would never dare make such a sound near Thawne. “I could ask you the same.”

Thawne smiles crookedly. “I would most likely disturb them past any pretense of celebration. I know what people say about me.”

“They’re wrong,” Hartley interjects. He, too, knows what’s said and couldn’t disagree more. Thawne demands perfection from his workers—that much is true—but he isn’t unreasonable to do so. He went out of his way to give Hartley a job when no other employer would for fear of his father’s wrath. For that alone, Hartley owes him as much as he can give. 

Thawne’s smile widens. “I thought I would take this time to accomplish something. I suppose, as you’re the only one who knows about it, it’s fitting you should be here to witness my success.”

“You finished your android, sir?” Feigning ignorance won’t help. At any rate, Hartley has been too curious not to want a glimpse of Thawne’s project. 

“I did.” Thawne beckons him to a quiet room adjacent to his office. In this room is the work table Hartley saw earlier, and on it the android. Even Hartley, with his distaste for bots, has to admit this one is impressive. With its eyes closed and its chest panel shut, it’s indistinguishable from a human. “This is the next generation of custom bot. Oh, it takes much too long to be mass-produced,” he explains in response to Hartley’s questioning look, “but for the right price…an android that, for all reasonable purposes, is human.”

Hartley meets his eyes, hoping his face asks the question he dare not speak aloud. Thawne inclines his head. “Please. I want you to tell me if he holds up to close inspection.”

Hartley approaches with reverence and lays a gentle hand on the android’s bare chest. Its synth-skin is warm and pliable; when Hartley drags his fingertips across its chest, it pulls taut and relaxes like human skin. The only telltale difference is its motionless chest; unlike a human, it has no need to breathe. 

“It’s impressive,” he admits. “I’ve never seen such a realistic chassis.” 

Thawne’s pale eyes gleam. “His voice was the thing I found most difficult. The software is subtle, and I’m not sure whether it will suit him.”

Hartley refrains from preening. There are more aspects to a voice than most people know; get one of them wrong, and the android will be instantly recognizable as synthetic no matter how human its appearance. “Then it seems my arrival was fortunate.” 

Thawne turns to the android and says, “Barry, begin activation sequence.”

It activates swiftly and silently. Its eyes flutter open and it peers at its surroundings like a child waking from a nap. When it sees Hartley, its lips part in a soundless, astonished “Oh.” He’s taken aback. Has it never seen a person before?

“It’s convincing,” he says. He steps closer to examine its face. The nose is narrow and slightly turned up at the end. ( _Adorable_ , Hartley thinks, and has to correct himself: on a human, such a nose would be adorable. On an android, it’s nothing more than proof of Thawne’s attention to detail.) The brows are thick and ever-so-slightly uneven. The eyes are what captivate him most. As in all androids’ eyes, miniscule gears are visible in its irises; these are tinted grey-green. Unlike most androids’ eyes, the ones staring at him seem inquisitive, intelligent—alive. “Its expressions are certainly more human than any other android I’ve encountered.”

The android offers a shy smile, as though it isn’t sure whether it’s been complimented or not. Thawne lays a hand on its bare shoulder. It glances up at him in shock, as though it hadn’t realized there was another person in the room. “Say ‘hello,’ Barry.”

Obediently, the android chirps, “Hello Barry!” 

Hartley raises an eyebrow. “Not very bright, is it?”

“He’s learning,” Thawne says, his tone almost indulgent. The android—Barry, apparently—ducks its head, its eyes flickering between Thawne and Hartley. “And I’ll have to ask you not to insult him—he’s sensitive.” 

Hartley raises an eyebrow. Why anyone would want a sensitive companion bot is beyond his comprehension. Emotions are too much work when they come from real people; he can’t imagine dealing with them voluntarily from an android. “You wanted me to hear its voice?”

Thawne nods. “Status report, Barry.”

“Status: functional. All systems normal.” It has a pleasant voice, nondescript save its inherent warmth. Hartley knows that tone; he programs it into all companion androids to make them seem nonthreatening. (It is in no way a projection of the tone he would like to hear directed at him someday. That would be unprofessional.) “This unit is named…Barry.” Its eyes light up. _“My_ name is Barry.” 

“Very good.” Thawne rubs his thumb against the juncture of Barry’s neck and shoulder. It smiles and presses into his touch. An unpleasant feeling settles in Hartley’s stomach, as though he’s swallowed strong acid. “What do you think, Hartley?”

“It sounds human enough.” He fixes his eyes deliberately on Thawne and ignores Barry’s shy attempts to get his attention. “The voice suits its face—nondescript in every regard.”

He feels a fierce pang of satisfaction as Barry curls in on itself, its face falling into an impressive facsimile of sorrow. The urge to hurt its coded feelings bewilders him. He can’t possibly be jealous of an android. 

(He can. Unfortunately, this indicates two things: despite years of denying it, he does have a crush on his boss, and additionally, the little Barry-bot appears human enough that he considers it a threat. He shouldn’t. If Thawne wants it as a sexbot, it’s little more than a glorified Fleshlight. Certainly there’s no reason to be jealous of it.) 

“How would you change it?” Thawne asks. 

Given access to his software, Hartley would know. Without it, he merely shrugs. “Like I said, this voice suits it. I can’t think of a way to change it that would stay consistent with its appearance.”

The little android peers up at him, its eyes inquisitive despite the sorrow on its face. Thawne runs gentle fingers through its hair. “Thank you, Hartley. Give my congratulations to Dr. Snow, in particular—this launch wouldn’t have happened without her.”

Hartley recognizes a dismissal when he hears one. He turns on his heel and strides away, pushing the little Barry-bot and its disturbingly realistic reactions to the back of his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

With the excitement of the new model release gone, Hartley is able to resume something approximating normal work hours. When he stays late, it’s no longer at Thawne’s request; it’s because he loses himself in his work and doesn’t notice the time. 

One such night, he doesn’t glance at the clock until nearly eight at night. By the time he leaves the building, darkness has fallen. This is less than ideal, but he sets off anyway. There’s nothing to be feared from the darkness, only from the possibility, however slight, that he might encounter one of those unsavory persons who sent him threatening letters after he was outed. Half a dozen times, he shakes off his fear and reminds himself that nothing bad has happened in all the years he’s walked this route. This doesn’t stop his heart from pounding with abnormal vigor or adrenaline from spiking through his veins with every sudden noise. 

He’s almost to the apartment building when a clatter sounds to his left, louder and closer than any so far. Without a conscious thought, he whips around to face the source of the noise. It’s a woman, crouched on the ground beside an unconscious figure. As Hartley watches, she yanks up their shirt and paws at them. 

“Hey!” he yells. Her head snaps up. Foolishly, he runs toward them, although he’ll be of little use if she puts up a fight. “Go on, get away!” 

She bolts away like a track runner after the starting gun. Hartley kneels down beside the unconscious figure. Light falls on their exposed chest and he can’t quite stifle a groan. He intervened for an android. 

“I should have…oh.” His bitterness drains away before he can properly express it. This isn’t a random android; it’s Thawne’s little Barry-bot. He shuts its chest panel, hiding its intricate inner workings from view. “I suppose I can’t just leave you here. Um, begin activation sequence.” 

The android’s eyes flutter open. When it sees Hartley, it chirps, “Hello Barry!” 

“Yes, yes, ‘hello Barry’ to you too.” Hartley tugs its shirt down over its midriff and tugs it to its feet. “Get up. It isn’t safe for you on the street.” 

“Hello Barry,” it coos again. 

“Follow me,” he tells it. “And shut up.” 

Barry trails him to his apartment. When they get to the lobby, it stops and looks around with wide, eager eyes. Hartley tugs impatiently on its wrist. 

“Come on.” 

It follows him to the elevator, still staring at its surroundings like a child. Hartley guides it along at an unforgiving pace and tugs on its wrist whenever it slows down. “There’s nothing to see. Come on.”

It stares at him as though he’s just smacked it across the face. Despite himself, he feels a pang of pity. Barry isn’t yet a week old; Hartley doubts it’s familiar with much other than the interior of Thawne’s office (or bedroom, as the case may be). It’s acting like a child because, in terms of its experience, it is. 

“All right,” he sighs. “You can look around.” 

Barry bounces on the balls of its feet and claps, quick flat-palmed pats that scarcely make a sound. Memories crash over Hartley in waves. His sister—his little Jerrie—clapped like that whenever she was excited; wherever she is, he hopes she still does. It’s too human a motion for an android to mimic, so he snaps, “Don’t do that.”

Barry drops back onto its heels and lets its hands fall limply to its sides. Its interest in its surroundings vanishes, and when Hartley pulls it into the elevator, it follows without protesting. 

“I…” Hartley bites off his apology. Barry is an android—it has a set of coded responses, but it doesn’t have real feelings. He doesn’t owe it an apology because he can’t hurt it. 

When they reach the eighth floor, he pulls Barry out of the elevator and down the hall. Some of its childlike curiosity returns when confronted with dark tile and plush red-and-gold carpet. Upon seeing the door to Hartley’s apartment, it makes a soft, wordless coo. 

“Go in.” Hartley opens the door and gives it a little shove. Barry wanders into his living room, hastens to the lonely little sofa, and trails its fingertips over the fabric, evidently entranced. Hartley kicks off his shoes and approaches Barry. His first instinct is to tell it to go to sleep, call Thawne, and have him collect it. Unfortunately, he’s too curious not to ask why it left Thawne’s office in the first place. 

“Sit down, Barry.” 

Obediently, Barry sits, folds its hands in its lap, and regards Hartley with wide eyes. He sits down beside it and mimics its posture. 

“Why did you leave your master?”

Its mouth turns down into a pleading pout. It points at its lips, then at Hartley, and shakes its head. He’s about to snap at it when he remembers ordering it to shut up. “You can talk now.”

It gives him a shy smile, obviously grateful for the permission. Hartley is surprised it isn’t upset with him for the initial order, then reminds himself it’s an android. Not only does it not have feelings, it’s almost certainly been coded not to hold grudges. “I don’t have a master.”

“Eobard Thawne,” Hartley reminds it impatiently. “The man who made you. He’s your master.”

It shudders and wraps its arms around itself. Hartley scoffs. It can’t get cold, and its self-preservation code should have a loophole where Thawne is concerned. (This, too, is the result of trial and error. The first line of customizable companion bots was prone to self-destruction. An investigation determined that the bots that self-destructed had been treated poorly and, lacking the ability to defend themselves, had essentially committed suicide. Since then, bots have been programmed to accept any form of ill-treatment from their owner and anyone their owner designates as ‘safe.’) 

“Why did you leave him?”

It whispers, “He wanted me to hurt people.” 

Hartley frowns. “You mean other androids? What, was he going to test your limits in a bot-fight?” Bot-fighting is perfectly legal, although it typically draws such a rough crowd that most people avoid it. He wouldn’t have thought Thawne the type to be involved, but perhaps it was going to be an experiment to test whatever modifications he made to Barry’s chassis. 

Barry shakes its head. “People,” it insists. “Humans.”

“You can’t.” Hartley studies its eyes. It doesn’t look like it’s lying; it seems to believe every word. Someone may have modified its memory to confuse it, perhaps as a harmless prank or perhaps as part of some scheme. “Your prime directive doesn’t permit it.” 

Barry tilts its head. Its delicate mouth gapes open in confusion. “Prime directive?”

“The foundation of your code,” Hartley sighs. “The laws that govern the entirety of your cognition. Do not harm a human by direct action or inaction; do not disobey an order, except an order that would cause you to do harm…”

Barry shakes its head, its expression panicked. “I don’t have those!” 

Whoever messed with this little bot’s memory did a hell of a job on it. “Recite your prime directive.” 

Barry’s eyes get the slightly glassy look of an android running an internal scan. With rising panic in its expression, it reports, “I can’t.” 

“What do you mean, you _can’t?”_ A direct order in reference to Barry’s base code should have been enough to overwrite whatever memory alteration it’s undergone. Hartley refuses to consider the alternative. Thawne wouldn’t have created an android without prime directives. Without those fundamental tenets, the android would be, in effect…human. 

“Error 404, file not found,” Barry says urgently. 

“Don’t give me cheek, you little glorified toaster.” With each passing moment, the urge to power Barry down, plug him in, and examine his base code is growing stronger. Unfortunately, Hartley lacks a cable capable of connecting Barry to his laptop. “Recite your prime directive!” 

“I can’t!” Barry curls in on itself, tucks its knees to its chest, and hides its face. “I can’t. I can hurt people, I can, I’m designed to, but I don’t want to and I don’t have to and I ran.” It lifts its head just enough that Hartley can see tears glimmering on its cheeks. They’re as synthetic as the rest of it, so he can’t understand why the tears convince him in a way Barry’s panic couldn’t. 

“How could you run?” he asks. “Eobard Thawne is your master. You can’t leave him without an order.”

Barry shakes its head. “Don’t know,” it admits. “But I did. I couldn’t…I couldn’t do what he asked me. I couldn’t.”

Hartley understands, even if the little bot seems not to. Obedience is written into an android’s prime directive, second only to its inability to do harm. In deleting the code for the first directive, Thawne seems to have erased all three. Typically, all subsequent code assumes the android’s obedience, so Barry may not be aware that it can choose to disobey any order. That, he supposes, is the reason it’s obeyed Hartley’s orders without question. As soon as it learns that its choice to forsake Thawne was not a glitch, it will be its own master. 

Far be it from Hartley to make Barry aware of that. 

“All right,” he sighs. At this juncture, there seems to be nothing he can do except keep it overnight. In the morning, he’ll go to work, and that evening, he’ll get a cable, hook Barry up to his laptop, and prod around in its code. If all is as Barry says, then he can worry about why Thawne would feel the need to make an android without prime directives, and who he might have ordered it to harm. “Do you have the necessary hardware to charge yourself overnight?”

Barry nods. It swipes absently at the tears on its cheeks as though surprised to find them there. 

“Plug yourself in,” he instructs it. He has no idea how much battery life it expended running away from Thawne, and he’s not eager to have it die. “Once you’re plugged in, power down for the night.”

It nods and gets to its feet. Before going over to the charge port, it steps close to Hartley and gives him a sleepy nuzzle. He recoils. If this is some kind of preprogrammed bedtime routine, he wants none of it. 

“Oh,” it murmurs. When it trudges over to the port, there’s a definite slump to its narrow shoulders. Hartley rolls his eyes. It may or may not have prime directives, but that doesn’t mean it has feelings. 

After Barry powers down, Hartley remains on the sofa for over an hour, pondering. Perhaps Thawne made Barry as a kind of additional security. The order may not have been to harm someone immediately; it may have been a standing order to harm or kill anyone who approached—Thawne, perhaps? Or some new invention he deems worthy of high security? A broad order might have frightened Barry more than a single kill order; it would have no way of guessing how often, or in what capacity, it would have to fulfill it. 

(Frightened, he thinks to himself, as though an android is capable of fright. There was a conflict somewhere in its code, likely between its gentler companion-bot nature and the second, unknown use to which Thawne wanted to put it. It couldn’t resolve the conflict, so it fled. It isn’t capable of fear.) 

Content with this explanation, he retires to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

Hartley rises with the dawn, showers, dresses for the day, and shuffles out to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When he reaches the dining room, he finds the table set for one and a steaming bowl of oatmeal waiting for him. 

“…Barry?” 

The android peers out of the kitchen. Its face is bright with the need for approval, and its eyes never leave Hartley’s face. “I made you breakfast,” it offers shyly. 

It even stirred berries into the oatmeal, the way Hartley likes. It couldn’t have known that—he certainly didn’t tell it—but he supposes this is its form of repayment for taking it in. “If you have some kind of programmed chores that you do during the day, you don’t have to do them here,” he says. “I can look after myself.”

Its face falls. He understands now what Thawne meant about its sensitivity; it seems to take everything personally. Reluctantly, he adds, “Thank you for breakfast.” 

Barry perks up, its eyes widening as though being praised is all it could ever want. “I made coffee! Only I don’t know how you like it, so I left it black.” It ducks its head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you’ve saved me time.” Hartley brushes past it, grabs the cup of coffee, and stirs in a spoonful of almond-milk creamer. Barry follows him back to the table and hovers while he eats. Eventually, he waves his spoon at it. “Shoo! Go…run diagnostics or something.” 

Barry nods. Before it wanders away, it leans against him as though it wants a hug. “Have a good day at work.”

Hartley pushes it away, although not as forcefully as he had the previous night. It’s warm from charging overnight, and its skin feels so human that he could almost fool himself…

“No,” he says, as much to himself as to Barry. He’s not desperate enough for a hug that he’ll accept one from an android, no matter how human it looks. “That’s enough. Don’t touch me.”

“Oh.” Barry curls in on itself. “I’m sorry.” 

He watches out of the corner of his eye as it sinks to its knees beside the sofa and enters diagnostic mode. Since he didn’t tell it what scans to run, it will probably run all of them. That should give him plenty of time to leave without it noticing. 

He finishes his oatmeal and coffee, washes the dishes, and hurries out the door. Barry doesn’t pause its scans to say goodbye, for which he’s grateful. He doubts he could have been patient with the little bot when he’s so eager to get to work. 

When he arrives at STARCorp, Cisco greets him. “Hey, so, uh, Thawne is on the warpath and I don’t know why. I’d say just stay in your lab and don’t come out.”

“I would have done that anyway,” Hartley reminds him. 

“Well, when you put it that way,” Cisco says, and leaves well enough alone. 

Hartley spends the day mindlessly adjusting dials. Most of the voices he generates are unusable, about which he would be ashamed if he could think beyond the mystery of the little Barry-bot. More than three times, he accidentally re-creates Barry’s perfectly nondescript voice. 

(In person, it’s less nondescript than it appears when laid out in the software. Barry’s voice is expressive and warm, and although Hartley knows it’s typical for a companion android, he can’t help wanting to read genuine emotion into it.) 

Just after lunch, Ronnie Raymond appears, looking ruffled. “Thawne wants to see you,” he pronounces. 

Hartley has no excuse not to go. Reluctantly, he gets to his feet and trudges up to Thawne’s office. He has a suspicion he knows why he’s been summoned, and he isn’t entirely sure how he’ll respond. 

“Ah.” Thawne greets him curtly. “Hartley. This will seem an odd question, but do you remember the android I showed you a few days ago?”

“Your little Barry-bot?” He hopes he’s infused the correct amount of disdain into his tone. “Yes, I remember it. Don’t tell me it has the faulty speech-production code.”

Thawne’s brow furrows. “Huh? No, no. He’s gone missing. I’m afraid he may have been taken.”

“From your office, sir?” Hartley casts a lingering glance at the door to the adjacent room, which is locked with a numeric keypad. He hadn’t paid attention to the locking mechanism on the other side. There might have been a way for Thawne to shut Barry in, but he may not have thought it necessary. Androids don’t make escape attempts. 

“From my home.” Thawne rubs a hand over his face. To his astonishment, Hartley notices dark circles under his eyes. He must have been up late looking for Barry. Had Hartley not heard Barry’s disconcerting tale, and were he not acutely worried about the possibility of Barry lacking prime directives, he would confess everything at once. “As I told you, he’s one of a kind. I hoped maybe you saw or heard from him?”

Hartley cocks his head. Does Thawne have him under surveillance? Worse, can he still access Barry—has he been watching Hartley through Barry’s eyes? “You think it would try to contact me?”

Thawne smiles wearily. “You were the first person he saw when he opened his eyes. That’s not nothing, Hartley—it leaves an impression. If he was taken, and if he managed to escape, he might just as quickly seek you as he would me.” 

Something about this explanation rings false. Androids are impressionable upon their first activation; ideally, their owner is the first to activate them and the first face they see. That much is true. However, that impression can be wiped from their memory banks at any time. It isn’t lasting, and in any event, it’s not strong enough to drive a kidnapped android to Hartley’s door if it wants its owner. “No,” he says slowly. “I haven’t seen it. You don’t think scrappers got it?”

Thawne scowls. “If they do, they had best be clever enough to realize he’s too valuable to disassemble.”

Hartley shrugs. “Valuable parts make valuable scrap.”

“No!” Thawne’s voice cuts the air like a whipcrack. Hartley flinches. “I told you, he’s one of a kind. His coding is—” Thawne presses clenched fists against his eyes. “Believe me when I say his value goes beyond the worth of his chassis. He has scientific value, and I will do anything to get him back.”

“Scientific value?” Hartley can’t help but sneer. “It’s a companion android. A well-made one, sir—your skill is undeniable—but just a house-bot.”

Thawne shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to understand. I know how you feel about androids.” He waves a dismissive hand. “This was foolish. Forget I asked you, Hartley—tell me if you hear anything about him.”

Hartley doesn’t promise to do so. He respects Thawne too much to add that lie to the others. 

At the end of the day, he leaves uncharacteristically promptly. There’s a small electronics store on the way home, from which he purchases the necessary cable. By the time he reaches his apartment, he’s run through the steps to find the flaw in Barry’s code half a dozen times in his mind. 

When he pushes open the door to his apartment, all thoughts of examining Barry’s code evaporate. The tile around the door shines as though it’s been recently mopped, and Barry is halfway through vacuuming the miniscule living room. 

“What are you doing?” Hartley demands. 

Barry stops, its little mouth opening in a silent “oh.” “Hello Barry!” it chirps. 

He has to find a way to make it stop doing that. “I asked you a question.”

It turns off the vacuum cleaner and folds its hands behind its back. “I finished running the requested diagnostics,” it reports. “All systems normal. You said I didn’t have to do chores, but you didn’t leave me an itinerary or a list of permissible activities, so…” It rocks side to side. “I wanted to be helpful.” Its eyes shine with the now-familiar need for praise. 

“You are not to touch my things,” Hartley snaps. “This is not your home, I am not your master, you’re a broken runaway sexbot that I had the decency to allow inside. Do you understand?” 

It curls in on itself and stares at the floor. Artificial tears bead on its lashes. Unexpected, unwelcome guilt coils in Hartley’s stomach. This is the second time he’s made it cry. 

“I’m not a sexbot,” it whispers. 

“And I really don’t care.” Hartley sits down at the table, pulls his laptop from his bag, and turns it on. 

“I’m not,” it insists. “I might be broken and a runaway, but I’m not—I’m not a sexbot. Or at least, I’ve never…” It trails off. Hartley rolls his eyes. 

“All right, little bot, I believe you. Come here.”

Barry glances at the computer and shies away. Hartley extends a hand to it. He may not have the patience for this android’s antics, but he can at least make an attempt at sympathy. “I want to look for your prime directives. If they’re not there, I should be able to tell when they were removed, or if you were coded without them.”

“And then you can fix me?” Barry asks. A single tear spills from its lashes and rolls down its cheek as it smiles. 

Hartley isn’t sure. He should—Barry is dangerous without them—but he doesn’t know what it will do to the sensitive little bot. At worst, he could jeopardize whatever instinct made it flee when it was asked to kill. “Let me get inside your head. Then we’ll figure out what to do.” 

Without being asked, Barry kneels beside the table with its back to Hartley. The synth-skin on the back of its neck melts away, exposing a port no larger than Hartley’s thumbnail. He finds the correct end of the cable and fits it into the port. Barry makes a soft noise in its throat. 

“Does that hurt?” Hartley asks. Androids have sensors that register damage to their bodies as ‘pain,’ but he didn’t think inserting a plug would trigger those sensors. 

“No, but I can feel it.” 

Hartley hums in acknowledgement and plugs the other end of the cable into his laptop. Barry’s shoulders slump and its head lolls forward as though Hartley has just powered it down. He’s never seen an android react like this to being plugged in, but then, he’s never tried to modify an active unit. Out of curiosity, he peers at its face. Its mouth is open and its eyes are glassy as though it’s running a scan. 

“Interesting,” he muses, before turning his attention to the code appearing on his screen. He knows the code he needs: the first lines that appear on the screen, used without alteration in every android STARCorp produces. It contains the three prime directives, the algorithms that an android uses to learn, and the software that enables an android to recognize emotions in the humans around it. Hartley stares in bewilderment at his screen. The prime directives, the core of Barry's code, have been erased.

“You were right,” he tells Barry, although he doubts it can hear him. “Your prime directives have been erased. There’s nothing stopping you from killing me, if you wanted to.” He chuckles. “If you wanted to—I sound like I’m talking to a human. But there is absolutely nothing forcing you to obey me, or anyone else for that matter.” 

He could add the code. It’s saved to his laptop; it would only take a few seconds, and Barry would likely never know the difference. The android’s troublesome free will would disappear, and he could…

What could he do, though? Sending Barry to Thawne is not an option, since logic dictates that Thawne must have been the one who removed its prime directives. The scrapper in the alley couldn’t have done it; she hadn’t had a laptop, and no verbal command can force an android to delete them. Furthermore, only a STARCorp employee can alter an android's base code. Unless another employee was alone with Barry long enough to hook it up to a computer, this was part of Thawne’s design. 

Out of curiosity, he digs through the rest of Barry's code. There’s a section called COMPANION, indicating that Barry is at least in part a domestic android. Glancing through the programs confirms that it’s coded as a sexbot. 

“Your neck is sensitive,” Hartley notes with a smirk. Barry is coded to submit instantly and happily if its owner grabs it by the back of its neck. “Perhaps that’s why you reacted to the plug the way you did.” 

In addition to its companion programming, there’s a second section called PROTECT. This is standard for security androids, but when Hartley examines it, there have been alarming alterations made. Not only is Barry’s first instinct running—an odd choice, when most guard androids are programmed with a repertoire of non-lethal martial arts moves—but it has an entire array of high-speed attacks. 

“What are you?” Hartley murmurs, scrolling down to access more code. It’s been given instructions for high-speed punches, a maneuver called ‘vacuum’ that is in no way related to its earlier cleaning spree, and most alarming of all, the ability to match the vibrational frequency of any object. In theory—Hartley can’t imagine how it would be put into practice—Barry could phase through any solid object. 

“Information: meta-droid,” Barry replies dully. 

Hartley jumps. Barry is still slumped in the same position as before, its expression vacant. He doubts it’s aware of answering. 

“What’s a ‘meta-droid’?” he asks. 

“Information: androids with enhanced abilities.” 

This must be what Thawne meant when he said Barry has scientific value. Hartley understands the concept—android bodies can withstand things humans can’t—but he doesn’t quite grasp how that relates to Barry’s unusual code. 

“What ‘enhanced abilities’ do you have?” 

“Information: superhuman speed. At last test, this unit exceeded Mach 3.”

Hartley’s eyes widen. Small wonder Thawne wants it back. An android with these capabilities could revolutionize the industry. Instead of companion and security androids, they could make soldiers with a wide range of superhuman skills. 

“Are you the only meta-droid?”

“Information: Eobard Thawne produced eight meta-droids before constructing this unit.”

The bottom drops out of Hartley’s stomach. _Eight_ enhanced androids, all likely without the prime directive. If that’s the case, Barry is the least of his worries. Then he remembers the honesty in Thawne’s eyes when he called Barry unique. He truly believes this little bot is special. The question then becomes: why?

“Why did Thawne build you?”

“Information: this unit was not told.” 

Of course it wasn’t; Thawne would have no reason to tell it. Hartley suspects he’s gotten as much information out of Barry as he can. He closes out the files and prepares to disengage Barry from the laptop when a final thought strikes him. “Barry, if you have these abilities, why did Thawne code you as a sexbot?” 

“Information: this unit was not told.” 

Hartley nods. “I’m going to unplug you now,” he warns, and does so. 

Barry sits up with a little gasp. Its eyes, returned to their human-like shine, dart around the room before focusing on Hartley. “Did you fix me?” it begs. 

A false “yes” rises to Hartley’s lips but never leaves them. For some reason, lying to this little bot seems wrong. “No,” he admits. “I don’t know what installing new software would do to you, and I’m not eager to find out.”

Its eyes scan Hartley’s face. “You…didn’t fix me?” 

“No,” he sighs. “But I took a look in your code. Do you remember answering questions while you were plugged in?”

Barry shakes its head. “No. I went to sleep.” 

“You did,” Hartley agrees. “And you answered questions. You told me you’re a ‘meta-droid’ enhanced with superhuman speed.”

Barry nods, a pleased little smile flitting across its face. It looks like it wants Hartley to be proud. “I am. I can run as fast as—”

“Mach 3,” Hartley finishes. “You told me. My suspicion is that Thawne removed your prime directives so that you could use your enhanced abilities to their fullest extent.” He sees no reason to be gentle. “You were designed as a weapon.”

Its smile melts away. “I know,” it murmurs. “Thawne wanted to use me to kill…” Its teeth sink into its lower lip. 

“Who was your target?” Hartley demands. Thawne has eight other meta-droids. If by now he’s realized that Barry has refused its orders, he may send another. 

Its eyes fill with tears. _“You.”_

This is the moment the lights go out.


	7. Chapter 7

“They’re here, they’re here, we have to go, we have to go _now…”_ Barry tugs on Hartley’s arm. He waves it off. These meta-droids are dangerous; that much is obvious. He would nevertheless be a poor excuse for a scientist if he didn’t at least attempt to glimpse them. 

“Easy,” he soothes. Keeping his eyes on the door, he closes the laptop and slides it back into his bag. If they have to run, he doesn’t want to be without it. 

The door swings open and two men—androids—stand in the doorway. The taller of the two steps forward, hands held out. “Hartley Rathaway?” it asks, its voice raspy. Hartley wrinkles his nose. That isn’t one of his voices; he doesn’t give androids that particular raspy tone. It sounds too much like they’ve been gargling gravel. 

“Who’s asking?” He stands up. He doesn’t stand a chance in a fight—androids are stronger than humans even when they aren’t meta-droids—but he won’t surrender without one. 

The android chuckles. “He said you’d say that. He also said we were to tell you that Eobard Thawne sends his sincerest apologies. He doesn’t want to kill you, but you’ve seen too much.”

“If I hadn’t before, I certainly have now,” Hartley scoffs. 

The other android steps forward and holds out one hand, palm facing Hartley. It turns its head to the other and gives a most unpleasant smirk. “Should we fry him like that reporter?”

“We do that, we could hit Thawne’s Babybot.” It jerks its head at Barry, who's hovering beside Hartley’s right shoulder. “Think he’d learn to stop making speedy bots.” 

“Right.” The air in front of the bot’s outstretched hand ripples. As Hartley watches, droplets form, condense, and freeze into a teardrop-shaped hailstone. His mouth gapes open in shock. Lethal though the impact of that hailstone will be, its formation is impressive. 

“Electrical manipulation of water vapor,” he breathes. “It’s beautiful. I would estimate it takes a great deal of power.”

The android laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ve got enough juice to bury this in your brain, catch Babybot, and get home.” 

“A comfort, I’m sure.” Hartley adjusts his grip on his bag. If he times it right, he can swing it up so that the hailstone will shatter his laptop rather than his skull. It will only buy him a little time, but he hopes to spring into action with the extra second or two. 

“Not for you,” the android says, and launches the hailstone at Hartley’s face. 

Before Hartley can react, pain lances through his abdomen. It feels as though a rope has tightened around his waist and jerked him off his feet. His vision greys out, and when it returns, he’s on his back staring into the twilight sky. 

“Oh no, are you okay?” Barry kneels near his head. His expression is frantic. One of his warm hands cradles Hartley’s face. He can’t think clearly enough to push him away. 

“Hurts,” he manages. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” Barry’s thumb rubs across his cheek. “I’ve never run with anyone before, I wasn’t careful, I think I broke you…”

Hartley drags in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The pain doesn’t dull, but the haze in his mind clears enough for him to think. Barry must have grabbed him and run. He ought to be grateful he wasn’t burned to nothingness by the acceleration. “Not broken,” he gasps. “Did you… _ah_ …grab me around my waist?”

Barry nods. 

It’s possible his back is broken. He flails a hand, manages to bring it up to catch Barry’s, and clutches his fingers. Then, with an effort, he moves his left foot. 

As he’d feared, the pain is excruciating. He lets out a choked scream and squeezes Barry’s hand so tightly that a human would complain. Barry just whispers apologies and pets his hair. Despite himself, he leans into the touch. “Not broken,” he manages. “Bruised, very bruised, possibly ruptured, but my spine is intact.” 

Barry gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I couldn’t think where to go,” he admits, “but I think I ran to someone who might be able to help.”

He lifts Hartley as easily as a child. He wraps shaky arms around his neck and closes his eyes. There’s no sickening rush; instead, Barry carries him slowly and smoothly forward. He shifts Hartley carefully so that he can knock once, sharply, on a door. 

“I’m sorry,” Barry murmurs.

The door opens. The stinging scent of alcohol washes over Hartley in waves, and he fears he’ll be sick. The voice that speaks is deep and carefully rounded in the manner of a man who knows he’s had too much to drink. “I don’t know what you want, but…”

“Please.” Barry clutches Hartley tightly. “I made a mistake, he’s hurt. You were the only person I could think of to help us.” 

“You’re a meta-droid, aren’t you?” The drunken voice has a distinctly bitter note. “Take him to your fucking _master._ Get off my property or I’ll shut you down for good.” 

Barry lunges forward. Hartley bites back a scream. “Please,” he begs. “Thawne wants to kill him and wipe my memory. You were…” He lowers his voice. “I only know about you because of Jesse.”

A heavy sigh sends more alcohol fumes wafting over Hartley. Bile stings the back of his throat. “Come in.” 

Hartley is carried into a house that smells of neglect. This isn’t the quietly forsaken staleness his apartment takes on after over a day at work—it’s the pungent odor of rot and refuse that hasn’t been cleaned in years. He leans over Barry’s arm and vomits. 

“Oh,” Barry coos. “I’ve got you, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” 

Hartley manages to open his eyes as he’s laid on something soft. He’s lying on a sofa that might once have been cream-colored but is now stained a repulsive shade of brown. There’s vomit on his sleeve. With a dull pang of alarm, he notes that it’s rust-brown with blood. 

“I’m here,” Barry offers. Hartley catches a glimpse of his worried face before he’s shoved aside by a man with rumpled hair and piercing blue eyes. 

“This should dull the pain,” the man says. A needle sinks into the crook of Hartley’s elbow. He barely feels the injection, but his arm goes suddenly, frighteningly numb. 

“I can’t move my hand.” He struggles to sit up. The man pushes him back onto the sofa. 

“It’s supposed to do that. Just relax.”

Hartley does as he’s told. Within seconds, his eyes fall closed. He doesn’t have the energy to fight it.


	8. Chapter 8

When he wakes, Barry is kneeling at his side. He—it, Hartley corrects himself—is holding Hartley’s hand. As soon as he ( _it_ ) sees Hartley’s eyes open, he says, “I’m so sorry.”

“You saved my life,” Hartley admits. When he tries to sit up, the world sways gently. “Although I would ask, ‘at what cost?’” 

Barry’s eyes dart away guiltily. “I’ve never run with anyone before,” he admits. “I didn’t even think about what it could do to you. I could have killed you.”

“You didn’t,” Hartley murmurs. He considers pulling his hand out of Barry’s grasp, but he lacks the strength. With an effort, he could probably move, but he isn’t sure he could withstand the loss of Barry’s warmth. 

“You were lucky.” A raspy, rough voice precedes the appearance of the man who drugged him. He perches on the arm of the sofa above Hartley’s head. “You had massive internal bleeding. Nothing I couldn’t fix, of course.”

Hartley pushes himself up on one elbow. His head feels cloudy, and he wonders fleetingly if he’ll remember this conversation later. “Who are you?”

The man pours himself a glass of scotch. “Dr. Harrison Wells.” 

“A medical doctor?” The name sounds familiar, but Hartley can’t think why. It reminds him vaguely of attending summer physics lectures, although the connection seems foolish: judging by the fact that he hasn’t bled out, Wells’ skills are in medicine, not physics. 

“A physicist,” Wells corrects. He takes a gulp of scotch and sighs. “But I know enough about medicine to get by.” 

Barry burrows against Hartley’s side and murmurs, “His daughter, Jesse, is the reason the meta-droids exist.”

“No,” Wells snaps. “You don’t get to tell that story. You’re a glorified fucking toaster—you have no idea. _No idea._ What it was like.” He drains the rest of his glass and reaches for the bottle. Hartley reaches up and catches his wrist. 

“What story?” 

Wells jerks his wrist out of Hartley’s grasp. “My daughter died,” he says curtly. 

Despite the urge to demand the rest of the story, Hartley keeps quiet. He’s learned—slowly, but surely—that silence is more convincing than words. Presently, Wells speaks, as Hartley knew he would, to fill the oppressive silence. 

“Fine. You want the whole story, fine. My daughter was seventeen when her body started to tear itself apart. At first it was little things—ulcers, pressure sores—but then it started to spread.” 

“That’s why you knew how to help me,” Hartley realizes. 

Wells nods. “Her physician trained me to use a portable tissue regenerator. It’s quick, it’s easy, and it wouldn’t stop the disease but it managed the symptoms adequately. For a while.” He pours himself another drink. 

Hartley suspects he can guess the rest of the story. Still, he stays quiet and lets Wells tell it. 

“She knew she was dying. She was terrified.” Wells scoffs. “I promised her I’d find a way. And I did. It was entirely theoretical—no one would fund it—but I had the money and I was desperate. Dr. Martin Stein said he could create a synthetic replica of a human brain.”

“I’ve heard of that.” Hartley nods. “It’s based in extremely questionable science.”

“Engrams, yes.” Wells’ mouth twists bitterly. “But he lacked the skill to create an android that could pass for human. Eobard Thawne said he could do it.” 

“Enabling Jesse to live on as an android.” Hartley’s brow furrows. “She would still die. It would be a replica—”

Wells snaps, “You think I didn’t know that? But I couldn’t tell her. I think she died believing that her consciousness would pass to that fucking android as soon as it was activated. It was in the room when she passed. I activated it just before she…died.” He sighs. “And just for a minute, she was so _happy._ She thought she would be able to run again. She was a runner, before she got sick.” He drains his second glass. “Thawne took that into account when he created the android. Only he didn’t know how well he’d done it until after.”

“And let me guess.” Hartley manages to sit up. Barry curls beside him on the sofa, nuzzling his head into the crook of Hartley’s neck. “When he saw, he wanted her back.”

Wells nods. “And when I wouldn’t give it back, he overrode me. Gave me back my money and told it that he was legally its owner now. It went with him willingly.” He throws the glass across the room. It shatters against the far wall. “That was the worst part. That was when I knew Stein was wrong. He hadn’t re-created my daughter’s mind because my daughter would never have _left me!”_

“She still thinks about you,” Barry offers. “Thawne orders her to forget you, but she doesn’t. She takes his orders but she won’t take that one.” 

Wells jabs a finger at Barry. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_ give me false hope.”

Hartley holds up a hand. “He may not be,” he says slowly. “The other meta-droids have all had their prime directives removed. They don’t have to obey anyone—I think they do it out of habit. Given motivation, they can choose a course of action for themselves. My suspicion is that your Jesse is the same way.” 

“Weren’t you listening?” Wells drinks directly from the bottle. “My Jesse died. I don’t want the android version because _it isn’t my daughter.”_

Hartley has nothing to say to that. Only a few short hours ago, he still thought of Barry as an ‘it.’ (He’s aware the change happened when he was too injured to think clearly. He doesn’t understand why he now thinks of Barry as conscious, but he doesn’t really mind.) “With or without you, we intend to take the fight to Thawne. At the moment, I don’t see that we have any choice.”

Wells raises an eyebrow and, to Hartley’s dismay, a good point. “There are two of you. He has how many other meta-droids?”

“Eight,” Barry supplies helpfully. Then he frowns. “Maybe seven. I hit Clyde with his own hailstone at close to Mach 2. I don’t think he’ll survive that.” 

“And Thawne will either be inside STARCorp or his house, which is…” Hartley searches for a word to describe the fortress of glass and steel that he’s seen only once. 

“Impenetrable,” Barry says. When both of them glance at him, he shrugs. “I was there for a week. I noticed things.” 

His point made, Wells glowers at the now-empty bottle. “Sounds like you’re out of luck.”

A sharp knock punctuates his pessimism. Barry skitters to his feet and interposes himself between Hartley and the entryway. Wells staggers to his feet. Before any of them can approach the door, a cheerful, familiar voice calls through the wood, “Hey Harry, I just wanted to make sure you’re alive and not, like, facedown in a puddle of your own vomit or something. So are you alive?” 

Hartley glances at Wells. “You know Cisco?” 

Wells rolls his eyes. “Ramon is my neighbor. He’s taken it upon himself to…” Words fail him. Instead, he gestures at the door. 

“Yes,” Hartley agrees. He’s intimately familiar with the well-meaning annoyance of Cisco’s attention. “He does that.” 

“Harry,” Cisco calls through the door. “Ha-a-a-arry. Please tell me you’re alive.” 

Obediently, Wells calls out, “I’m alive, Ramon. Now will you please go away?”

“You said ‘please’.” There’s the soft metallic scraping of a key in a lock. “Now I know something’s wrong.” 

The door swings open and Cisco steps inside. His round face creases in disgust. “Harry, why does it smell like vomit? You know, this is why I check up on you, because if I didn’t I’m afraid of what you…”

Wells lurches across the room, lays a hand on Cisco’s shoulder, and steers him back toward the door. “As you can see,” he pronounces, “I am not dead. I’m not even drunk.” 

“Really, man?” Cisco shrugs out of Wells’ hold. “’Cause it sure smells like…oh.” His eyes meet Hartley’s over Wells’ shoulder. “Hey, Hartley. I didn’t think you knew Harry.”

“He doesn’t,” Wells sighs. When Cisco shoulders past him, he adds in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Why don’t you just…come in, then.” 

“Oh.” Cisco’s eyes fall on Hartley’s sleeve, which is caked with dried vomit. “Oh, you got sick. Okay. Please tell me you didn’t let him get you drunk?” He jerks his head at Wells, who remains in the middle of the room. “Because he’s been really, really bad since Jesse died, and he doesn’t need a drinking buddy to encourage him…”

“No.” As he can’t see another option, Hartley strips out of his soiled shirt. Cisco’s eyes widen and he glances away. Unasked, Barry shrugs off his sweater and offers it to Hartley. This leaves him in a tight white shirt, a development Hartley doesn’t mind in the least. 

“It was my fault,” Barry tells Cisco while Hartley slips on his sweater. “I got him hurt, and I came here because I thought Dr. Wells could help. He was in a lot of pain.” His warm hand finds Hartley’s and squeezes. Hartley squeezes back. 

“Uh, okay, who are you?” Cisco’s eyes skim over Barry’s chest, dart away, and flit back again. Hartley is fairly sure he blushes, but in the dim light, it’s difficult to tell. “Because, uh, I think I’d remember seeing you around.”

“My name is Barry,” he pronounces proudly. He goes to extend his hand for a handshake without disentangling it from Hartley’s. Cisco watches, amused. 

“Wait, are you two, like…?”

“No!” Hartley yelps. “We’re not…it isn’t…he’s an android, I wouldn’t…”

Confusion and delight play across Cisco’s face. “He’s a—you’re a bot?” When Barry nods, he lets out a soft whoop. “Oh, really, Mr. I-Hate-Bots? And don’t even try to tell me he’s not yours, because Harry’s the only person I know who’s more anti-bot than you are. If he had a bot, I wouldn’t have to check up on him every night…”

“You don’t ‘have to’ check up on me,” Wells mutters. He’s ignored. 

“He’s not—” Hartley says at the same time as Barry chirps, “I’m Hartley’s bot.” He sounds so delighted by the prospect that Hartley can’t bring himself to contradict him. 

“I kind of…came by him by accident.” 

“Accident?” Cisco sits down on Barry’s other side. “Now this is a story I have to hear.”

Over Wells’ protests, Hartley and Barry tell the story of their first meeting and subsequent discoveries. Then, at Hartley and Cisco’s insistence, Wells repeats the story of Jesse and the first meta-droid. By the end, Cisco is speechless, a rare occurrence indeed. 

“So,” Barry finishes. “Thawne needs to be brought to justice for what he’s done. We might have to wipe the other meta-droids, but…I don’t want to shut them down.”

“Holy Enterprise,” Cisco murmurs. “He’s _created consciousness._ I mean, this isn’t—these aren’t just computerized servants anymore, these are androids capable of independent thought. And yeah, I mean, the way he’s using them is horrible, but…” He lets out a soft, astonished huff. “That’s huge. And honestly terrifying, I mean, every organization that regulates android production has strict rules against this sort of thing. If they find out, Thawne is going to be toast.” He cuts himself off. His eyes skim Barry’s face, which is alight in response to Cisco’s awe. 

“And the androids will be decommissioned.” Wells adds what Cisco refused to say. Barry flinches. 

“No! They can—I mean, they don’t know they’re conscious. I didn’t until Hartley told me about what it meant that I don’t have prime directives. They probably don’t know they can disobey him. If we tell them, maybe…” 

“Barry.” Cisco catches the hand that isn’t holding Hartley’s. _“You’ll_ be decommissioned.” 

“No.” Barry stares blankly at him. “I can’t be decommissioned. I’m not Thawne’s anymore. I’m Hartley’s bot.” He cuddles closer to Hartley’s shoulder. Hartley releases his hand so he can put his arm around Barry’s shoulders. He may not particularly want an android, but he’ll do what he must to keep Barry from being decommissioned. 

“That won’t matter,” Wells reminds him. “You lack prime directives. You’re dangerous.”

“Then give me prime directives!” This is directed at Hartley. “You can do it. I want you to. I won’t mind obeying you, I do it anyway…”

“Not yet.” After what he’s seen, he hates the idea of altering Barry’s code. The thought of him mindlessly subservient, that spark in his eyes going out, is repulsive. “Right now, Thawne is your owner. If I install prime directives in you now, you’re likely to return to him. Next time, he won’t make the mistake of removing the file. He’ll alter the code so that you can kill, but you’ll still be forced to obey.” 

Barry shakes his head, tears gathering in his eyes. “Then what do we do?” 

“Well,” Cisco says, “The three of us—four of us, maybe?” Wells doesn’t respond. Undeterred, Cisco continues. “We don’t stand a chance against seven or eight enhanced androids, plus Thawne’s house which, I have to admit, is pretty cool. And, more importantly, it’s got kickass security, which I know, because I helped install the Gideon program to monitor all the cameras and stuff.” 

Hartley rolls his eyes. Of course a house filled with killer androids is monitored by an additional android. And in that moment, he has an idea. 

“We cut his power. Are the backup generators enough to sustain the Gideon program?”

Cisco hums thoughtfully. Barry shakes his head. “No. The security cameras will still be live, but he’ll have to watch them manually, or have one of the meta-droids do it. And if we can wear down the meta-droids…”

“Because all of their abilities drain their power,” Cisco realizes. “That could work. Uh, only problem with that.” He nods at Barry. “I’m gonna guess your abilities wear down your power, too. And I kinda doubt you’re at full charge right now.”

He nods. “I have enough for one burst of speed—unless you have a port?” 

Wells scoffs. “Of course I don’t, haven’t you been listening?”

Cisco is more sympathetic. “This house was built before ports were standard, and yeah, Harry’s the last person who would’ve had one put in. I have one, though, and I’m just next door, so if you think we can spare the time…”

“We’re going to have to,” Hartley says. “We stand no chance without your speed, Barry.”

This is how they find themselves traipsing next door to Cisco’s house. To Hartley’s surprise and Cisco’s apparent amusement, they’re accompanied by Wells, who complains a lot but is under no duress. 

“Make yourselves at home.” Cisco unlocks the door and pushes it open to reveal a small but welcoming living room. Barry steps inside and turns a circle in the middle of the room. Hartley lingers near the wall. No matter how warmly he’s bidden, he has no intention of making himself at home. “Mi casa, and all that. Barry, there’s a port just here if you wanna plug in…”

Barry folds to his knees in front of the charging port. He has both hands on the hem of his shirt before he realizes, “Oh…it’s not gonna be a problem if I take my shirt off, is it? I can charge with it on, I just usually don’t.” 

Cisco makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. “So not gonna have a problem with that. Go ahead, whatever makes you comfortable.”

Barry tugs his shirt off. The synth-skin over the small of his back opens up, and a cylindrical plug extends to the port. He glances up at them, his eyes wide and earnest. “I go to sleep when I charge, like when you plugged me in, Hartley. If you need me before I’m fully charged, tell me to begin activation sequence and I’ll wake up.” 

“I know,” Cisco reassures him. “These two may not have any experience with bots, but I do. Go ahead and sleep…you’ll be safe here.” 

Barry plugs himself in. Almost immediately, his eyes fall closed and he slumps forward, kept upright only by the connection between his back and the wall. Hartley steps forward, one hand extended. Cisco catches him by the wrist. 

“This is just how they charge, although I gotta say, he’s a lot cuter when he sleeps than Gideon.”

A smooth, synthetic voice responds, “Perhaps, Cisco, but what I lack in appearance I make up for in efficiency.”

“Hey, Gideon,” Cisco says, affection brimming in his voice. “Harry, Hartley, this is my Gideon. She’s not much, but she’s classic.” He reaches out a hand to a grey-and-white android, which steps forward obediently. Unlike Barry, Gideon appears only vaguely human: its—her—chassis resembles a close-fitting suit of plate armor, and her face has soft imprints resembling eyes, nose, and mouth. 

“Hello,” Wells mutters. 

Hartley inclines his head. He’s somewhat more at ease with the Gideon model than any subsequent line because they make no pretense of humanity; they’re humanoid, but so blatantly synthetic that they don’t evoke the sense of wrongness that subsequent models do. This particular Gideon has apparently been taught how to smile, because she favors them with a small quirk of her lips. “Welcome, visitors.”

“Hey, Gideon?” Cisco flops down on the sofa. “Is it possible for an android to wirelessly hack the power grid?”

“No. You have posed this same inquiry before, although always in the context of blackouts.” She cocks her head. “Are you expecting a blackout, Cisco?”

“Nope.” He smirks. “We want to induce one.” 

“I am afraid I cannot help you.” Gideon folds her hands in front of herself. Her fingers overlap each other but never touch. “I could, in theory, induce a blackout by venting my remaining power into the electrical lines, but I can do nothing wirelessly.” 

“Huh.” Cisco nods. “Good to know. Thanks, Gideon.” 

“Of course, Cisco.” She favors him with a small smile. “Shall I prepare a meal for your guests?”

“Uh…yeah, Harry needs something to sop up whatever the hell he was drinking.” A pensive frown tugs at Cisco’s lips. “Um, you know those cheesy fries, with the beef and…”

Gideon nods. “I do. They will be ready in half an hour.” She turns on her heel and leaves the room. Hartley raises an eyebrow at her retreating back. 

“I didn’t know Gideon-model androids could smile.”

This earns him a pleased smirk. “I _am_ STARCorp’s resident coding genius. I mean, besides Caitlin.” The smug glee disappears from Cisco’s face and he leaps from the sofa with a shout of “Caitlin!” 

“Huh?” Wells grumbles. 

“Caitlin, from work.” Cisco holds up a finger. “Oh, yeah, we’ve gotta get Caitlin involved. She can help us. I mean, Barry said we might have to wipe the meta-droids, and that’s kinda more her thing than mine, and plus if I tell her I knew about a massive conspiracy within STARCorp and left her out of it she’ll tear me into tiny bits and put my heart in an android…” 

Hartley raises an eyebrow. He says nothing, but his train of thought must be clear, because Cisco erupts, “You haven’t seen her when she’s angry about something. She scares the hell out of me.” 

“Ramon.” Wells sits down in an armchair that’s seen better days. He sinks so deeply into it that his knees fold halfway to his chest. When he speaks, he has a distinct air of ruffled dignity. “This is a covert, illegal, and potentially lethal operation. A smaller, more focused team has a greater chance of success.”

“I know!” Cisco agrees. “But we’ll be dealing with bots. You want a bot-savvy team, and no offense, you aren’t bot-savvy, and Hartley’s, like, exclusively a voice guy.”

“I can code,” Hartley interjects. 

“Can. Doesn’t mean you should.” Cisco drapes his arm over the arm of the sofa. His fingers brush through Barry’s tousled hair. Instinctively, Hartley steps to Barry’s side. This is, as he’d promised Barry earlier, _his_ little bot. “Plus, there are seven or eight meta-droids to deal with. I think we’re gonna want numbers on our side.” 

“If we want this to be legal…” Hartley muses. “I…may have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely lost track of what Harry was doing with his alcohol, so if the bottle or glass ended up someplace it shouldn't have been, I'm sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

An hour later, Caitlin Snow, Eddie Thawne, and Joe and Iris West arrive. Cisco makes them welcome and apologizes that the cheesy fries (which were magnificent) have been entirely consumed. Then he has them sit down and listen while Hartley and Wells tell their stories again. 

“Wait, whoa,” Joe interjects in his deep, warm voice. “My partner’s cousin has an army of illegal, super-enhanced androids that can run faster than sound, make hail, and throw electricity? And that’s one of them?” He points at Barry, who remains insensible in front of the port. Hartley interposes himself between that accusatory finger and his little bot. 

“He rejected Thawne. He’s my bot now.” 

Cisco hides a smirk behind his fist. Caitlin raises surprised eyebrows, and even Eddie gives the smallest of twitches. The Wests, unfamiliar with Hartley’s android problems, fold their arms and give him near-identical frowns. 

“If he lacks prime directives, he’s not anyone’s,” Iris points out. “We can’t trust him. He forsook his previous owner; what’s to stop him going back?” 

Hartley glances at his sleeping bot. Barry looks as guileless asleep as he does awake. He doesn’t believe that Barry would change his allegiance on a whim. “If what he’s told me is true, he left Thawne because he refused to kill. I don’t think he’d betray us.”

“That’s an awful lot of faith to place in a thing that, at the end of the day, is designed to take orders.” Joe nods at Barry, then at Gideon, who’s been idling in the doorway waiting for more instructions. 

“I know,” Cisco interjects, “but we kinda don’t stand a chance without him. We know Thawne has another speedster bot, and he has at least one, maybe two, bots that can generate hailstones and electricity. We don’t know what the others do, although Barry might be able to tell us when he wakes up.” 

Caitlin kneels down in front of Barry and lays a hand on his cheek. “Barry?” she coaxes. “What’s your battery life?”

Barry’s eyes flutter open, but they’re as dull as they were while he was plugged in to Hartley’s laptop. When he speaks, it’s with the same slow, toneless voice. “Information: this unit is at seventy-two percent charge.”

She frowns thoughtfully at him. “That’s probably enough. Barry, begin activation sequence.”

There’s a soft whir as the plug disengages from the port and retracts into Barry’s back. He sits up with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering in confusion. Despite Caitlin’s proximity, he glances first at Hartley. Only then does he look around at the others. “You’re Dr. Caitlin Snow,” he says softly. “I know you from the STARCorp employee database.”

She smiles encouragingly. Barry smiles back and glances shyly over her shoulder at the Wests and Eddie. “Who are they?”

“That’s Detective Eddie Thawne, Eobard’s cousin,” Caitlin explains. “And those are Joe and Iris West, also detectives with the CCPD. We’re all here to help you.”

Comprehension dawns slowly behind Barry’s eyes. “You’re the ones who want to shut down the other meta-droids. I can’t—I won’t let you. They didn’t know they had a choice, you have to at least give them a chance…”

Hartley rubs a hand over the curve of Barry’s skull. Barry falls silent and glances up at him, his eyes wide and unsure. 

“We won’t do anything we don’t have to,” Caitlin says. It’s not quite a promise to leave the other meta-droids unharmed, but it reassures Barry. He relaxes under Hartley’s hand and returns his gaze to Caitlin, who offers another crooked, encouraging smile. “But we need to know everything you can tell us about the other meta-droids if we’re going to survive them.”

Barry nods. “Um, there’s Mark and Clyde—those were the two who came after us, Hartley. They can generate hailstones and throw small, focused bolts of electricity. And I might have destroyed Clyde…I’m not sure. I hope not, I just didn’t think…” 

“What about the others?” Wells prompts. 

“There’s Roy,” Barry recalls. “His eyes change color to induce specific emotional states in anyone who makes eye contact with him. He usually likes to make people angry and just watch them hurt each other, but sometimes he sends them into a depressed state so they just kind of sit there while one of the others…” He shudders. Hartley rubs gentle fingertips over his scalp, careful not to break any of the synthetic strands of hair. 

“Who else?” Caitlin gets to her feet. Barry mimics her. Standing up seems to remind him that he’s shirtless, and while he answers, he casts about for his shirt. 

“There’s Tony. His synth-skin is designed in these patches that can flip over, and there’s a titanium alloy on the underside, like what makes up our skeletons.” Barry winces. “It’s, um, it’s really gruesome when he…kills people.” 

Hartley can imagine. He’s watched brawls get out of hand, and he can only imagine the way the damage would multiply if inflicted by metal-clad fists. 

“There’s Hannibal. His synth-skin is malleable, so he can change his face to look like anyone. His body structure doesn’t change very much, but if you don’t look too closely, he can pass for just about anyone.”

That will be a problem if they get split up. This Hannibal could integrate with any group without them recognizing the impostor in their midst. 

“There’s Bette,” Barry recalls. “She secretes nitroglycerin through her synth-skin, so anything she touches turns explosive. She’s always been wary of Thawne, though—I don’t think it will take much convincing to get her to help us.” This is said with a pleading glance at Joe, Iris, and Eddie. Hartley is relieved when Eddie gives a small nod. He may not mean it, but it’s what Barry needs. 

“There’s Kyle. He has these cavities in his chest, kind of like lungs, but they’re filled with crystallized hydrogen cyanide. It’s stored solid but exhaled as a gas.” Barry shudders. Caitlin draws in a deep, unsteady breath and murmurs,

“That would be a horrible way to die.” 

“And there’s Jesse, of course.” Barry glances at Wells, hope alight in his eyes. “She’s a speedster like me, although she’s not quite as fast. And she doesn’t like Thawne, hasn’t for a while. She’ll join us if we ask, I know she will.” 

“Is there anything else we should know going in?” Iris interjects. 

Barry frowns thoughtfully. “Thawne kept us on a charging schedule so that it looks like he just has one android that charges every night. He always sent out whoever was at the highest charge to do…whatever he wanted done.”

“Meaning that when we go in there, some of the meta-droids will be closer to low battery life than others,” Caitlin concludes. 

With their luck, Hartley muses, the ones closest to shutting down will be Jesse and Bette. Although he suspects everyone else is thinking it, no one says so aloud. They need to be as optimistic as possible going into this confrontation, and perhaps they’ll have better luck than they anticipate.


	10. Chapter 10

The fuse box outside Thawne’s house is difficult to access. Wells is the one to short it, which he does with uncharacteristic glee. At once, electricity ceases to hum through the fence. With Barry’s help, they climb up and over and sneak to the side door. 

“What if he’s changed the code since you left?” Eddie murmurs. 

“He probably has,” Barry agrees. “But it doesn’t matter; if the power goes out, the code locks are set not to allow anyone in anyway.” 

Hartley frowns. He trusts Barry, but that seems like an obstacle they should have discussed in advance. As soon as they reach the door, however, he understands why Barry wasn’t concerned. One of his hands blurs into motion and sinks through the door. A second later, there’s a click, and the door swings open. Barry withdraws his hand, sees them staring at him, and smiles bashfully. 

“It’s called phasing,” he explains. “Come on.”

They’ve barely taken two steps into the house when a low voice orders, “Stop.” 

Joe, Eddie, and Iris draw their guns. Cisco brandishes a Taser. Hartley grips the modified EMP device he’d thrown together as they were leaving Cisco’s house. He’s loath to use it because it will shut Barry down, but he’ll do so if he must. 

“Bette!” Barry shoulders between Joe and Eddie. “Bette, it’s me, it’s Barry.”

A woman steps into the sliver of light cast by the open door. Her expression is wary; one hand clutches what appears to be a tennis ball that’s glowing with a sinister purple light. When she sees Barry, she lowers the tennis ball. “What are you doing here?”

He scampers forward. “I came back!”

Bette takes half a step away from him. “He’s going to wipe you,” she whispers. “He’s furious. And you brought _people._ I don’t want to have to hurt them.” Her eyes flicker across each of them in turn. Hartley meets them defiantly and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. Bette’s eyes have the same human spark as Barry’s, and they look genuinely afraid. 

“Then don’t.” Barry holds out his hands. “You don’t have to. None of us do. We don’t have to take Thawne’s orders—it isn’t in our code. That’s why I could run, and it’s why I came back for you.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? I can’t, I can’t do it.”

“You can.” Barry holds out an encouraging hand. “Give me the tennis ball. I can take it and…”

“Well,” a soft, slimy voice purrs. Hartley shudders. He would never dare give an android such a voice. The day Thawne got access to the voice programming software was among the worst in the history of Central City. “Looks like Little Sister caught some burglars. Well done, little sister.”

“Kyle,” Barry murmurs. 

“Ohh, it’s Babybot.” Pale eyes glint in the darkness. “Welcome home, Babybot. The boss wants a word with you, but I don’t think he’ll care what happens to the humans…”

“Kyle, please.” Barry interposes himself between Kyle and Joe, who’s guarding their left flank. “You don’t have to kill them. Even if Thawne told you to—”

Kyle steps into the light. Hartley wishes he hadn’t. This particular meta-droid must have been constructed with the sole intent to alarm, because everything about his pale visage is unsettling. “Oh, Babybot. I know. I’ve known for a long time. Thing is…” He gives a toothy smile. Wisps of gas slip between his clenched teeth. “I _like_ killing.” 

Caitlin coughs and covers her mouth. Joe wrinkles his nose and pushes Iris toward the still-open door. Hartley presses his thumb to the button on the EMP. An apology forms in his throat, but he never speaks. 

Their only warning is a flash of purple. Bette’s tennis ball catches Kyle squarely in the chest, knocking him back against the wall. The explosion rocks the floor beneath Hartley’s feet. For a single heartbeat, the air catches fire. It burns itself out instantaneously, and Kyle’s charred chassis topples to the floor. 

“They know we’re here,” Eddie blurts unnecessarily. 

Barry darts to Bette’s side and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I knew that once you knew you could choose, you’d do the right thing.” 

“Hug later,” Wells snaps. “Fighting meta-droids now.” 

The group fractures. Caitlin, Iris, Cisco, and Wells break away; their goal is to get to the basement, find the charge port, and wipe the memory of any android that’s charging. Joe and Eddie hasten down the hallway, sweeping each room for meta-droids. Bette follows them. “Let me help.” 

“That leaves you and me.” Barry takes Hartley’s hand and guides him down the hall. When they’d made their plan, he’d been absolutely certain Thawne would be abed at this hour. After the explosion, aftershocks of which still ring in Hartley’s ears, it’s too much to hope that he’s asleep. They can, however, hope that he remains in place and trusts his meta-bots to dispatch any threats. 

(They can also hope that those meta-bots fail to dispatch them. That remains to be seen.) 

Barry is halfway up the stairs, Hartley two steps behind him, when a _clink_ sounds from the bottom of the staircase. This is their only warning before a hand closes on Hartley’s ankle and pulls. The EMP drops from his hands as he struggles to stay balanced, to no avail. He catches himself on the edge of a stair. Pain bursts through his right wrist, intense enough to wrench a yelp from him. By the time he’s able to look around, he’s at the foot of the stairs. A metal man towers above him. 

“Tony!” Barry yells. “Wait, please, don’t hurt him!” 

Metal gleams above Hartley’s head. He launches himself forward, ducks between Tony’s legs, and skitters to his feet. There are shouts from the other room—Joe and Eddie. In front of him, a blurred silver form turns and swings a fist. Hartley staggers backward, holding his injured hand behind him to feel for the wall. 

“Got a face made to take a beating,” Tony growls. 

A breeze ruffles Hartley’s hair. He blinks, confused, and finds his glasses have been put back on his face. Barry is standing in front of him, one hand held out to Tony. 

“Tony, please.” Barry backs up, herding Hartley into a corner. There’s no way out now, and worse, no way for him to reach the EMP that’s laying halfway up the staircase. “You don’t have to hurt him. You don’t have to hurt anybody. Thawne tells you to, but you don’t have to listen to him.” 

Tony pauses. His silver brow furrows, and his eyes—the only parts of him that haven’t turned to metal—glaze over. The words “Recite prime directives” stick in Hartley’s throat. 

“I _can,_ though,” he says. It lacks the eagerness of Kyle’s earlier proclamation. Hartley can’t decide if he’s saying he’ll happily choose to kill them or if he’s merely acknowledging the absence of the prime directive. 

“You can,” Barry agrees. “I can, too. But you can choose not to. You don’t have to—”

A gunshot rings out, deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. Barry is gone in a flash, leaving Hartley to face the bewildered Tony. Without waiting for him to reach a conclusion about whatever scan he’s performed, Hartley dives for the stairs. His fingers close on the EMP and he holds it out, triumphant. 

“Barry!” 

Bette runs out of the room from which the gunshot sounded. Her hands are clutched tightly in front of her and her eyes are frantic. “They’re fighting,” she says. “Roy, he made them—I can’t stop them, I can't touch them—one of them is bleeding…”

Hartley tucks the EMP into his pocket, grabs the banister with his left hand, and hops off the stairs. The impact jars his ankles, but he doesn’t feel the wrenching pain that would indicate a sprain. “Barry!” he calls again. “Go upstairs. Find Thawne.” 

“They’re fighting!” Barry pleads. 

“I know! Go upstairs!” 

There’s a rush of air that indicates Barry has run past him. Hartley gives him two seconds, then activates the EMP. There’s no burst of light, no visible way of tracking the spread of the waves. Only Bette and Tony's collapse indicates his success. Confident that the nearest meta-droids have been neutralized, Hartley braves the other room. 

In the middle of the room, Joe and Eddie are locked in a struggle. Blood stains the carpet around their feet; their guns lay discarded in the doorway. An android is sprawled in the near corner, his open eyes glowing red. Hartley hastily directs his gaze to the struggling detectives. 

“Eddie!” He lunges into the fray, grabs Eddie under his arms, and hauls him back. Fortunately, this stops the detectives’ brawl. Unfortunately, it turns their collective rage on him. His first indication of this is Eddie’s fist smashing into his cheek. “Eddie, enough. You’ve been put in a—a rage trance. I need you to focus.” 

Eddie spits a word he never expected to hear from the gentle detective and throws another punch. He blocks it poorly with his left arm and kicks him in the stomach. 

“Get off me!” 

“I found you on the streets,” Eddie spits. “And I should have left you there!” 

Two half-baked plans flit through Hartley’s mind in the space of a heartbeat: get the gun, pistol-whip both of them into unconsciousness, and hope that solves it, or find a way to activate Roy and try to find a setting that will inspire an emotion other than anger. Neither seems plausible. Instead, he backs toward the door, hoping to lure Eddie away from Joe and lock them in separate rooms. 

There’s a familiar rush of air. Eddie disappears in the blink of an eye, followed by Joe. Hartley has barely registered their disappearance when banging echoes down the hall and a pleased young woman speeds into the room. 

“I know what Roy did to them,” she pronounces. “They just need a little time to cool off. I’m Jesse, by the way. Jesse Quick.”

“You certainly are,” Hartley agrees.

A massive _thump_ rattles the house. At first, Hartley thinks it’s one of the imprisoned detectives, but no: it came from upstairs. He runs out of the room, EMP in hand. Jesse races past him and meets him halfway up the stairs. 

“Barry,” she says. “He’s fighting Mark, and it isn’t going well.” 

Hartley takes the remaining steps two at a time. Instinct makes him pause just before he steps into the upstairs hallway. Half a second later, a hailstone smashes into the wall to his left. 

“I—want—you—dead!” a raspy voice roars. 

Jesse darts past Hartley. Electricity flickers in her wake, leaving a distinct taste of ozone in the air. “We’ve got him,” she says. “You have to find and disable Hannibal. He’s the last meta-droid in the house.” 

“Right.” He brandishes the EMP. “If things get out of control, call for me, then take Barry and go back to the basement. This device can only affect androids within a two-meter radius—if you’re far enough away, you’ll be safe.” 

“Be careful!” Jesse calls after him. “Hannibal might not have superspeed, but he’s stronger than a human!” 

Hartley ducks down the hall. Because the doors are shut, two steps lead him into perfect darkness. He puts out his injured hand, finds the wall, and trails it along until he finds a door. Lacking any other guidance, he pushes it open. 

The room within must be Thawne’s bedroom. The shutters have been thrown open to allow light into the room. It illuminates an unmade bed, a ransacked dresser, and a closet that’s standing ajar. It’s the obvious hiding place—too obvious. Hartley crosses to the darkest corner of the room, lays his hand against the wall, and finds another door. 

The room beyond the second door is illuminated only by a crack in the shutters. The walls shudder from the impacts of Mark’s hail. Hartley hugs the outside wall, fearing that a particularly vicious blow might bring the inner one down. 

“Impressive, aren’t they?” 

Thawne’s voice. In the dimness, Hartley can’t see him. Rather than strain to see through the light, he closes his eyes and tries to hear where Thawne is. 

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But no matter their powers, an android is an android. The more impressive the effort they put forth, the quicker they drain their battery.”

“And therein lies your weakness, Hartley.” Thawne, like Hartley, is against the outside wall. It seems that while he’s impressed by his meta-droids, he doesn’t trust them not to destroy his house. “Your cynicism reduces the extraordinary to ordinary in your eyes. You can’t see the wonder in what I’ve created because you won’t allow yourself.” 

The thud of hailstones against the wall is slowing. Mark must be wearing down. Hartley opens his eyes and steps forward into the darkness. “What worries me is whether you consider your greatest achievement to be the abilities you’ve given these meta-droids or their ability to kill.”

Thawne scoffs. “Any android can be made to kill. Strip away their prime directive and there is no order they won’t obey.”

Hartley permits himself a smile, knowing it won’t be seen. Thawne doesn’t know. Barry’s guess that the meta-droids obeyed out of habit must be close to the mark. “Then why is your little Barry-bot so important to you? He’s sweet, I’ll grant you that, and he passes for human remarkably well, but he’s just a high-velocity killer.” 

He’s close enough to discern Thawne’s silhouette. Instantly, he stops moving. The eyes staring back at him glow, like the faint halo of a lightbulb after it’s turned off. In normal light, it’s unnoticeable, but in the darkness, there’s no mistaking it. Those are the eyes of an android. 

“The shape-shifter, I presume?” Hartley asks. 

Without a word, the android punches him. Pain shoots through his skull. He’s almost certain bones are broken. He lurches away from the second punch and calls, “Jesse, go!” 

He gives them two seconds before pressing the button to activate the EMP. The glow in the android’s eyes dims, and he falls to the ground at Hartley’s feet. 

“A shame,” says a voice from behind him. “Do you have any idea what a pulse like that does to their mechanics?” 

Hartley turns on his heel. He stuffs the EMP back into his pocket; there’s no need for it now, and he wants his good hand free. “Nothing you’re incapable of fixing, I’m sure.” 

The door opens and closes in a rush. At almost the same time, the shutters spring open, illuminating Thawne’s keen, cold eyes and crooked smile. Barry skids to a stop at Hartley’s side. 

“Jesse made me run downstairs and I got worried and is that Hannibal on the ground behind you? Or is this Hannibal?” 

“That’s Hannibal,” Hartley murmurs, jerking a thumb at the android sprawled behind him. “That’s Thawne.” 

“You did go to him, didn’t you, Barry?” Thawne sounds like an indulgent parent. In response, Barry tucks himself against Hartley’s side. “I thought you would. As I told you, Hartley, you were the first person he saw—my mistake. But it’s all right. Now that Barry has come back to me, he won’t remember any of this.” 

Barry squares his shoulders. “I don’t have to take orders from you!” he pronounces. “I’m conscious, and I make my own choices!” 

“Oh, Barry.” Thawne’s crooked smile grows. “You can never outrun me.” 

The words have the same effect as the cable or the charge port. Barry slumps forward, his face going slack and his eyes glazing over. Hartley recoils. 

“I knew what I was doing.” Thawne answers Hartley’s unasked question. “You think I wouldn’t code failsafes for this very eventuality? Come here, Barry.” 

Barry wanders to Thawne’s side. Disappointment twists in Hartley’s gut like a blade. He tamps it down. He knew this from the beginning. Barry is nothing more than a computer with a pretty smile. The right cheat code, the right modifications, and he can be twisted to anyone’s will. Hartley should have expected this since they made this fiasco of a plan. 

“I still don’t understand why you’re so desperate to have it back.” Hartley reaches for the EMP. He’s been injured at Barry’s hands once already; another, more deliberate attempt could kill him. He’s not going to risk his life on an android’s questionable code. “It’s a killer sexbot, and not a particularly obedient one.” 

“And therein lies his value.” Thawne’s eyes gleam. The cunning in their depths is more worrisome than madness; he knows precisely how deadly his creations are, even enjoys it. “I have meta-droids that will kill in a heartbeat. Perhaps you’ve met Kyle Nimbus? Mark and Clyde Mardon? Roy Bivolo?”

Hartley raises his eyebrows. He’s never known an android with a surname. Perhaps this is Thawne’s design for long cons; at need, any of his meta-droids could pass for human. “Yes.”

“Barry…” Thawne strokes the backs of his fingers down Barry’s cheek. “Barry is more than that. He is, truly, as versatile as a human—able to kill for his master and, just as quickly, ready to submit, to become gentle and docile, the moment he feels safe.” 

Hartley scoffs. “It’s a power fantasy. You get off on being able to control something with that much strength.”

Thawne shakes his head. “I heard you call out to Jesse Quick. Perhaps Harrison told you her story?” Hartley gives a single, curt nod. “Barry is my Jesse Quick, my past made flesh. I don’t get off on controlling his strength. I enjoy controlling _him.”_

The door opens again. This time, the blur that enters the room isn’t Barry; it’s Eddie, who shoulders past Hartley, shoves Barry aside, and punches Thawne in the face. 

“Teach you to set your androids on me, cousin,” he spits. 

Thawne glances up from the floor and wipes a trickle of blood from his mouth. “Barry,” he says evenly. “Kill my cousin and his friends. They’re about to learn what happens to trespassers in my home.”

“Uh, Hartley?” Cisco lingers in the doorway. The flashlight in his hand illuminates a bruise on his cheekbone. His dark eyes are wide with fear. “You, uh, maybe wanna use that EMP now?” 

He should. He’s seen how fast Barry can act; if he hesitates now, he won’t have another chance. Yet he can’t bring himself to push the button. 

Barry’s hand blurs into motion. Eddie leaps back, knocks against Hartley, and sends them both toppling to the floor. The EMP falls from Hartley’s hand and rolls into the corner. He’s lost his chance. At least, he consoles himself, it will be quick; his failure won’t doom the others to the suffering they’d have endured at the other meta-droids’ hands. 

Quick as a flash, Barry’s hand stops vibrating. Instead, it slams against Thawne’s cheek. His head snaps back and he crumples to the floor, evidently unconscious. 

“I told you,” Barry pronounces, “I don’t take orders from you.”


	11. Chapter 11

The rest of CCPD arrive in force, led by none other than the formidable Captain Singh. With him is Dr. Tina McGee, representing the Central City Commission for Artificial Intelligence. Singh confers with Iris; Dr. McGee questions Joe. 

“And how many of these meta-droids were recovered?” 

Joe’s dark eyes flicker first to Hartley, then to Wells. When he returns his gaze to McGee, his face is inscrutable. “Six,” he says without hesitation. “Five were found here. An additional chassis was found at Hartley Rathaway’s apartment.” He nods in Hartley’s direction. McGee’s keen eyes flick to him, assess him in a heartbeat, and turn back to Joe. “That was what tipped us off. Of the five meta-droids we encountered here, two have probably been damaged beyond repair. Three were shut down by an EMP.” 

Barry opens his mouth and starts to rise from the sofa. Before McGee notices, Hartley lays his uninjured hand on the back of his neck and guides him back down. He doesn’t need to force him; the moment the slightest pressure is applied, Barry’s legs go out from under him. A faint crimson flush rises in his cheeks, and he makes a soft, shocked sound low in his throat. 

“The detective knows what he’s saying,” Hartley murmurs. 

Barry nods. His “uh-huh” is high-pitched and breathy. Hartley bites hard on his split lip to keep from smirking. Of all the weaknesses to code into a bot, this has the potential to be both useful and amusing. 

“Hey.” Cisco wanders over. The bruise from Eddie’s punch has swollen and darkened; he appears to have affixed half a plum to the side of his face. “So, uh, Bette’s gonna be okay. I got her back online. She’s a little dazed, though—I left Caitlin in the car with her. If it’s all clear with you guys, I’m gonna take her back home, look her over, let her make friends with Gideon. Y’know. All the things you do to nurse a rescued bot back to health.” He directs a warm smile at Barry, who gives a dazed grin in response and leans against Hartley’s hip. 

“’M Hartley’s bot now.” 

Hartley glances at Cisco, twisting his face into feigned resignation. Cisco shrugs. “Can’t shake him. He’s his own master now, and he chose you.”

“Yes,” Hartley agrees. “He did, at that.” 

Later, in the privacy of his—their—apartment, Hartley will walk Barry through what it means to be a fully conscious android. He will calm Barry when he rages against the injustice that most androids cannot achieve consciousness, and many suffer. He will plot with Wells, Cisco, Jesse, and Bette about how to reveal this new form of consciousness to the world, and when the fledgling android rights movement takes off, all of them are at the forefront. He foresees most of this—with Barry’s inherent goodness, it’s difficult to imagine him doing anything else. What he does not foresee is how bizarrely, thoroughly happy it makes him. This, too, he would not have any other way.


End file.
